by Pearl Cleage
“For what?”
“Just pull over, okay? I need to check on something.”
“On somebody, you mean.” Davy pulled up in front of Zora’s place and grinned. “You better leave that woman alone. She ain’t thinkin’ about your broke ass.”
Baby Brother had made the mistake of telling Davy he might get a call from Zora on his cell. He hadn’t mentioned a possible call from Kwame. That wasn’t anybody’s business. Davy had initially been impressed, but after several days went by with no contact, he began to tease Baby Brother for having delusions of grandeur.
“Your cheap-ass phone probably ain’t even hooked up,” Baby Brother said, jumping out of the truck and heading up the walk. He rang the bell above Zora’s name, but got no response. Annoyed, he pushed it again, laying on it longer.
“Come on, nigga. Even if she’s there, she ain’t home to you. Can’t you take a hint?”
Before Baby Brother could respond to Davy’s taunt, the blue door opened and a tall, good-looking woman with a little Afro and a kid in her arms almost bumped right into him. She was talking to someone over her shoulder, and if he hadn’t reached out to stop her, she would have walked right into him.
“Oh! I’m sorry,” she said, her hand moving to the child’s back protectively. “I didn’t even see you.”
“No problem,” he said, but he was looking at the man standing behind her. No doubt about it. It was Kwame from the club. “Excuse me.”
“Are you looking for someone?” the woman said pleasantly, stepping out of the open door. The man returned Baby Brother’s gaze, but said nothing, perhaps hoping that without his voice, his identity might still be in question.
“I’m a friend of Zora’s,” Baby Brother said. “I was passing by on my way home from work and I thought I might be able to catch her.”
The woman shifted the baby on her hip. “She’s not here right now. You want me to tell her you stopped by?”
In the truck, Davy had turned down the radio long enough to try to eavesdrop on the conversation.
“Yeah, sure,” Baby Brother said. “Tell her Wes came by.”
“Wes?” She was waiting for him to say his last name.
“Wes Jamerson.”
“You working with Davy?” She waved, and from the truck, Davy waved back.
“For a minute.”
She grinned at him. “I heard that. I’m Aretha Hargrove. I have a studio upstairs. This is my husband, Kwame.”
Baby Brother held out his hand and Kwame shook it. “Whazzup, brother?”
“Whazzup?”
“Me, Mommy!” the little kid said. “Tell him me.”
“I’m sorry, baby.” Aretha smiled. “This is Joyce Ann.”
“Ice cream,” the little girl said. “Ice cream, Daddy?”
Kwame had no choice but to respond in correct fatherly fashion. “After you have your dinner, remember? Then we’ll have ice cream.”
“Ice cream!” she said again, and hugged her mother’s neck.
“I’ll tell Zora you came by,” Aretha said, heading down the walk.
“Yeah, thanks,” Baby Brother said, locking eyes with Kwame so there would be no mistake. “Good to meet you, man.”
“You, too.”
The three of them got into their car, complete with a baby seat in the back that Baby Brother remembered from the other night, and drove away with Kwame at the wheel. Davy was watching, too.
“That’s one lucky nigga,” Davy said as Baby Brother hopped back into the truck.
“Oh yeah?” he said, wondering how much this fool knew. “Why’s that?”
“He’s married to that fine-ass Aretha, he’s working for Blue Hamilton, and his mama is gonna be the next mayor.”
“Of Atlanta?”
“No, nigga, of Macon. Of course, Atlanta. What you think?”
“When?”
“As soon as the next election comes around. Next year or some shit.”
Baby Brother wanted to holler. He felt like he had just hit the lottery. This guy wasn’t just somebody on the down low with a few dollars to spare. This guy was a gold mine.
“So what you got on my forty?” Davy said, thirsty for a cheap malt liquor because that’s all he could afford.
“Fuck that,” Baby Brother said, feeling expansive. “Let’s get a six-pack. Of Heineken.”
“You ain’t got to tell me twice,” Davy said, pointing the truck toward Mr. Jackson’s liquor store. “What are we celebratin’ all of a sudden?”
“That nigga ain’t the only one who’s lucky.”
“Oh yeah? What kind of luck you got all of a sudden?”
“You gonna be drinkin’ good. What the fuck you care?”
Davy laughed. “You got that shit right!”
Baby Brother didn’t care what Davy was drinking to celebrate. He knew his celebration was because his ship had just come in big-time. And not a moment too soon, he thought. Not a moment too soon.
53
The last session of Abbie’s Introduction to Altars seminar had been one of those moments that made her realize one more time how grateful she was to be doing this work with these young women. They had all shared a potluck supper, another of Abbie’s traditions, cleared away the dishes, and gathered in their sisterhood circle to say a formal good-bye to this moment they had shared.
“I want to thank all of you for being willing to explore your spirits,” Abbie said, smiling around the circle. “For being so open to new ideas about yourselves and about each other. It is my hope that you will regard this seminar as only one small step on a journey that will take you a lifetime. Take care of yourselves. Take care of each other. Be peace!”
Then they all hugged. Some of the more sentimental ones cried a little, but by nine-thirty, they had all gotten themselves together and headed home. Abbie spent an hour cleaning up, but it was still too early to go to bed. She didn’t feel like reading or watching televison, so she stretched as tall as she could then leaned over to touch her toes while she considered her other options. That’s when she realized what she wanted to do was get into a nice hot bath and think about Peachy.
Their date was only a few weeks away and her imagination was working overtime. Lately, she had been considering the possibility of sex toys, although she wasn’t really sure about that yet. Her experience had been that when men thought of sex toys at all, their imaginations ran more toward voluptuous young women rolling around naked while pleasuring themselves and one another with an oversize dildo that would strike fear into anybody who wasn’t getting paid to stuff the thing into every available orifice. She had tried to introduce a vibrator into the proceedings once with a widower whose prostate cancer had left him wanting sex as much as ever but unable to sustain an erection or make peace with oral sex on any kind of regular basis. Abbie had suggested that a vibrator might be the most pleasurable and practical solution and he had responded by calling her a whore for suggesting such a thing and never calling again.
Peachy was certainly more worldly than that, she thought. From the conversations they’d been having and the letters he’d been sending her, Abbie knew her almost lover was open, adventurous, and as excited about their upcoming exchange as she was. They hadn’t had phone sex yet, but the last few times he’d called late at night, they had walked right up on it before she pulled back. She didn’t want their first time together to be long-distance. The first time, she wanted to feel his body against her own. She wanted to hear him call her name…
Down, girl, Abbie admonished herself as she turned out the lights and headed upstairs. She glanced at the clock in the hall. It was almost eleven and the neighborhood was surprisingly quiet. She was glad. The home invasions seemed to have stopped. Even though the police had never made any arrests, everybody was breathing a little easier. She lit a fat scented candle in the bedroom at the top of the stairs and started the water in the tub, pouring in enough sweet oil to make things both fragrant and slippery. In the bedroom she stepped out of her clo
thes and hung them neatly in the closet, listening to the CD she’d been playing all week, The Very Best of Solomon Burke. His unashamedly mannish tones filled the room and she smiled, listening to his heartfelt plea for some attention from a faraway lover.
A love that runs away from me.
Dreams that just won’t let me be…
Abbie walked naked into the steamy bathroom, singing along like Solomon had invited her to join his backup trio.
So far away from you
And all your charms…
The water was high enough and hot enough, so she turned off the faucet and stepped in carefully. Solomon’s voice from the other room was urging a brokenhearted damsel to bring him her troubles.
Don’t you feel like cryin’?
Come on, cry to me.
Crying was the last thing on Abbie’s mind as she slid down into the water up to her shoulders. The girl Solomon had been talking to must have finished with her crying because he had slowed things down and now he was promising not to stop loving her until she told him everything was all right.
Can’t nobody kiss you, little girl,
Like I’m kissin’ you…
Abbie took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and ran her hands over her breasts, her stomach, the soft prickle of her wet pubic hair. She touched her body gently and thought of Peachy’s hands, Peachy’s mouth, Peachy’s desire for her as a woman, and hers for him as a man. Solomon Burke was crooning that tonight was the night and she closed her eyes, let her legs fall apart a little farther there in that candlelit room, and sighed. That’s when she heard the glass breaking downstairs.
54
In his breast pocket, General was carrying three thousand dollars in cash. He hated credit cards, and anytime he could use real money, he did. This was one of those times. Things had been so quiet in the neighborhood lately, Blue and Regina had gone to Tybee for the weekend and General and Brandi were booked first-class on a midnight flight to Vegas.
He couldn’t wait. Things between him and Brandi were going so good, sometimes it almost scared him. Since they’d had that conversation about the sign he’d been looking for, it even seemed like more of Juanita was coming through in things about Brandi. Personal things. Things that were more intimate than a birthmark or a tattoo. Things only he would know. He knew it might sound crazy if he said it out loud, but the truth was, the last two times he had been inside her, Brandi’s body felt exactly like Juanita’s. He didn’t know how that could happen and he didn’t even care anymore. The first time, he asked her if she was doing something different. She said she was always doing something different so he wouldn’t get bored. But the next time, it happened again and he realized it wasn’t anything she was doing. It was something he was feeling, and that something was Juanita.
That’s when he decided they should get married. It was time for her to stop working anyway. Every time he went into Montre’s and saw her on the pole, upside down, shaking her ass for anybody who walked in the door, he wanted to go up there and carry her away like those macho guys do in the movies. The lap dances were even worse. She was so good at it, half these young fools came in their damn baggy pants. They tried to play it off, but he could always tell. She was that good and General was tired of sharing. Especially now that Brandi was carrying Juanita’s essence inside her.
The idea of marriage came to him as he was trying to figure out how to tell Blue he was going to Vegas with Brandi for the weekend. Because of the nature of the roles they played in each other’s life, part of their deal was that they always knew who was where at any given moment, but he hadn’t even told Blue he was seeing her, much less that things were so serious. General couldn’t just disappear for three days and expect Blue not to worry.
On the other hand, he was a grown man, and if he wanted to take a lady to Vegas, he wasn’t required to get a second opinion. Besides, even if Blue got a little pissed off, General knew once he came back with a wife, all would be forgiven. He and Brandi could get married in Vegas, come back here, and make a real life together. She could live like a little queen and never have to work again. He had more than enough money to support a wife. All she’ll have to do, he thought with a slow grin, is shop and eat good and let me love her all I want to. He knew Juanita would approve. He was, after all, doing it for her.
He reached for his cellphone, but before he could punch in Blue’s number, it rang in his hand. On the other end, Blue’s voice was all about business.
“I’ve got to go to D.C. tonight. Some young fools broke in on Gina’s aunt. She’s in the hospital.”
General felt a wave of anger wash over him. He liked Abbie and he knew Blue was crazy about her. “How bad is it?”
“We’re not sure. No rape, but they tied her up and trashed the place. I need you to put the car on the road and meet me in D.C. tomorrow. I’ll get a plane in Savannah.”
“Done. Do the cops have any leads?”
“Not yet, but somebody knows something. Maybe we can shake loose some information to help the investigation along.”
It was almost ten-thirty. D.C. was eleven hours, barring traffic jams, accidents, and road construction. “I’ll be there by noon.”
“Meet me at the house.”
General had been there for Blue and Regina’s wedding two years earlier. He didn’t need an address. “Done.”
Blue didn’t say how long they’d be in D.C. and General didn’t ask. He knew the answer. As long as it took to do what needed to be done. His matrimonial plans would have to be put on hold for a few days. He knew Brandi wouldn’t appreciate the change, but this was the life he had chosen, and as his wife, she’d have to get used to it. As his wife. The words made him feel good. Now that he’d realized what he wanted to do, he could hardly wait. As soon as they got to Vegas, he’d tell the limo driver to take them to that cheesy little chapel where the movie stars go for their quickie weddings. She would love that and he would love having her, and the part of Juanita that lived in her, all to himself.
But first he had business to take care of in D.C.
55
It hadn’t been hard for Baby Brother to get Kwame’s phone number. He waited until Old Man Mason was at work, then typed his name into Mason’s ancient PC. It spit out two phone numbers and an address that was three blocks away. It also referred him to lots of information about Precious Hargrove that confirmed what Davy had said yesterday about her being elected mayor next time around. Baby Brother turned off the computer and picked up the phone.
At the first number, a woman’s voice asked him to leave a message for Kwame or Aretha. That would be his wife. Aretha. He wondered if she could sing. The second number rang twice and a familiar voice answered. “Good afternoon. This is Kwame Hargrove.”
“No shit,” Baby Brother said. “Who do you think this is?”
Kwame had been dreading this moment ever since he started sneaking off to the down-low nights at clubs all over town. He knew it was only a matter of time, but now that he was in the middle of the moment, he couldn’t say a word.
“You can’t talk, nigga? I said who the fuck do you think this is?”
“I know who it is,” Kwame said, trying to sound firm.
“So how come you didn’t call me, nigga?”
“I was going to—”
“Save that shit. My boy Davy told me who the fuck you are and I already know what you like.”
“What do you want?” Kwame heard his own voice as if he was calling from the bottom of a well.
“What you got, nigga?” Baby Brother’s laugh was hard and mean. “Why don’t we start there?”
The nightmare was knocking on the door and there was still no plan forming in Kwame’s mind. There was only a big black hole of fear and guilt. What the hell was he supposed to do now?
“We need to talk, brother. Your place or mine?” Baby Brother smiled at his own wit.
“You can’t come here,” Kwame said quickly. “Can you meet me at Baltimore? Tomorrow night around—�
��
“Hell no, I can’t meet you at no Baltimore. I ain’t got no damn car and this ain’t no damn date.” He tried to sound as mean and hard as he could. It would save time later. “You got that?”
“I got it.”
Kwame sounded scared, which made Baby Brother feel bold.
“Yeah, well, you better get it or I’m gonna blow your shit sky high. Faggot!”
Kwame held the phone and closed his eyes. He tried to imagine how Baby Brother would do that exactly. Tell his mother? Tell his wife? Tell his new partners? Take the story to the newspapers? Tell Blue Hamilton? That thought actually made Kwame’s heart skip. Blue was Aretha’s godfather and he adored her. He couldn’t let Blue find out about this. That meant they couldn’t talk in West End. Blue had eyes everywhere in the neighborhood. There was only one place close by where Kwame could be sure they’d be alone; the loft that nobody knew about but him.
“All right,” Kwame said. “I know a place where we can talk.”
“Good.”
“Do you know Peters Street?”
“No, nigga, I don’t know no damn Peters Street. I know my ass is gonna be standing in front of Montre’s in fifteen minutes so you can pick me up and take me where I need to go so we can get this shit straight. You got that?”
“I’m driving a gray Accord,” Kwame said miserably.
“I know what you’re driving, fool. I saw you with your family in it yesterday, remember?”
Kwame knew he would never forget that moment. “I remember.”
“Don’t keep me waiting.”
Kwame took the admonition seriously. He was pulling up at the club at the same moment Baby Brother crossed the street against the light outside the MARTA station. He jumped into the front seat next to Kwame and they took a right at the corner where the Wachovia Bank was still hunkered down hoping for gentrification, and headed north. On the way over, Baby Brother was so busy talking, and Kwame seemed to be so busy listening, that neither one saw the charcoal-gray Intrepid cruising along a half a block behind them. Neither one of them noticed Lee enter a date and time in a small notebook lying open on the seat beside her.
